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Veldor. He was inside the circle and he had a raised dagger in his hand. Madness shone bright in his eyes, and more—evil power.
"Bron!” But his eyes were shut; his seed spilled inside her. He was vulnerable in his moment of release, just as he had been when the wolf was at his back.
With every ounce of strength she had, Maerose pushed him aside—and took Veldor's dagger alone.
* * * *
From the place on the ground where he had rolled free, Bron gulped air and stared in disbelief. The moonlight wavered, the splintering mists rising high in her path, but still he could see, and he could not deny it. It was as if his heart was being pulled from his chest. Maerose. Her eyelids fluttered closed, blood pouring from the wound beneath her ribs. At her feet, Veldor stood, his head back, his mouth open as he let out a victory cry to the soaring demons overhead.
Anguish gripped Bron, and fury. Maerose was dying. She had weaved her magic, but was it too late? Around them the chaos and noise had taken a different turn; those that had not fallen were squabbling amongst themselves or retreating toward the spire. Clambering to his feet, he cried out to the gods, to his elder brothers, to everything that lived and breathed. He would not let her die.
Hearing his cry, Veldor whirled round, drew out his broadsword, and lunged toward him.
Bron roared with rage, reached for the staff that lay on the ground and ran at him, holding his staff between his raised hands, deflecting the oncoming blow. The staff shot through with light and Veldor's broadsword bounced back.
Veldor crumpled, gripping his arm. “Elder magic will not save you in the face of this immense power,” he sneered, gesturing at the scene around them. “I am in league with the underworld now, you cannot defeat me."
Beyond Veldor, Bron saw Cale outside the circle, trampled beneath the feet of the hordes. “And your wretched alliance cannot protect your own men.” He gestured to Cale's body. “He was a good man, look what you have done to him."
Veldor looked and saw, cursed malevolently as he staggered, turning in disbelief to see where the others had also fallen.
Bron shook his head. Veldor had not thought to include his men in whatever pact he had made, his lust for power making him blind. He used the moment well and darted over to Maerose. He bent over her, carefully withdrawing the dagger, resting the staff upon her. Her body jolted upwards, a gasp of breath drawn in betw
een her lips.
Behind him, he heard Veldor cry out and lunge again. He turned, quickly avoiding him. Veldor was tiring, rage marking his expression now he realized all of his men had fallen.
"You are a fool, Veldor,” he shouted. “Can you not see what is happening?"
Veldor ignored him, his eyes glazed, his focus on his enemy. He lifted the sword again.
Bron had no shield now, for he would not take the staff and its magic from Maerose. His hand went to the dagger at his belt. He did not want to use it, he had not wanted it to come to this, but it had. Veldor would pay for what he had done to Maerose. Unsheathing the weapon he held it aloft. When Veldor made his next move, Bron ducked and came up behind him. As Veldor turned, Bron kicked his feet from under him. When he hit the ground, he cursed, for his arm hit a jagged rock, his hand loosening on the pommel of his sword.
Bron saw his chance and leapt at it. Dropping to one knee, he landed on Veldor's forearm, snapping it on the rock. Veldor's hand fell open, the sword rolled. Bron heard bones crack, felt flesh crushed. Veldor's body jerked and he let out a wail of pain. With his free hand, he clutched at Bron's shoulder, but Bron warned him off with the dagger.
Climbing to his feet, Bron snatched up the sword. With it trailing in one hand, the dagger in the other, he stood over Veldor, who writhed on the ground clutching at his arm. Bitter rage filled his expression. He spat on the ground, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
A momentary regret passed through Born, for what they had been, once. Brothers. But Veldor had brought himself to this moment, and suddenly Bron knew the way. Death was too good for Veldor. He'd spied another fate for his traitorous brother. “Get up,” he said between gritted teeth.
Veldor struggled, one arm useless, the other scrabbling at the ground as he got to his feet.
Bron glanced over at Maerose, willing the ancient power of all the elders present and past to help her. Veldor was on his feet. “I pitied you, when you left us,” Bron said and locked eyes with him. “But you're not worthy of my pity.” Thrusting the sword into the ground, he walked away from it.
He knew Veldor's eyes were on the sword when he stepped away. When Veldor made his move, Bron snatched at his good arm, twisting it behind his back. He moved behind him, the dagger close against Veldor's throat.
"I thought I might feel regret at this moment, but no, not after what you have done."
Resistant to the last, Veldor laughed wryly. “Dead or alive, I will lead the demon hordes, I have communed with the underworld."
Bron gritted his teeth and moved the blade, the curve of it resting under Veldor's chin, tipping his head back onto Bron's shoulder.
Veldor sucked his breath between his teeth, the tension in his body ratcheting up.
As Bron moved, the blade broke Veldor's skin, and a drop of blood ran along the blade to its handle. He watched it edge along the blade, savoring it, for he would draw no other. He felt calm, the knowledge within him rising. “It is too late. The curse has been turned back, Veldor. Look around you. Maerose, with her generous soul, has fulfilled the act."
Veldor shifted in his grasp as he looked at the scene around them. “No."
"Look again, see the truth.” Bron felt the mood in Veldor turn, the knowledge that he was too late curdling his blood. He lowered the blade, setting him free.
